


Thank Me in the Morning

by Bollocking Poppywank (StationeryVillage)



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Explicit Language, First Meeting, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StationeryVillage/pseuds/Bollocking%20Poppywank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker is 24, working for a local newspaper and about to be elected as an MP when he meets a young priest pissed off his face and covered in communion wafers.  Eventual Jamie x Malcolm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank Me in the Morning

**St Peter’s Church, Glasgow, 1984**

Malcolm Tucker was fucking late.

He should have left this _motherfucking cold stone shack excuse of a church_ an hour ago after taking photos of the new choir – fucking faceless toff brats the whole lot of them, hardly a Glaswegian accent among them, all _‘may I’_ and _‘do go on’_ to the extent Malcolm wondered if they hadn’t just started shipping Aryan-blonde twelve year olds in from Buckinghamshire or wherever the fuck they came from. _Kiddy fiddling bastards’d probably love that_ thought Malcolm grimly to himself as he pretended to smile and set up his tripod.   A few quick snaps, tea and biscuits with the choirmaster, that was all it was supposed to be, hardly a front-page fucking cash-in, however it was a depressingly prominent story for this _shitty arsewipe_ of a local newspaper. He’d just packed up his tripod and was about to leave when the vicar had invited him to watch the choir’s first performance – _‘they’ve been training so hard, we’d love for you to hear them’ –_ and so what could he do but grin as sarcastically as he could and sit his arse down on a pew, all the while thinking to himself that if there was a God surely he would take pity on Malcolm and bring the fucking roof down.

                As the boys finished on some obscure high-pitched vowel, Malcolm shot out of his seat and managed to finish the ‘thank yous’ and the handshakes in less than a minute, running from the church and frantically waving for a taxi. _Shit wank cocksucking dog diarrhoea_ he had to get this fucking non-story on Paul’s desk by five, it was four fifteen and he hadn’t even begun trying to write about this shit-dull piece of wank yet. It was at times like this, rushing to get a piece done that he hated for a newspaper that he couldn’t even admit to his da he was writing for, that Malcolm was fucking glad that he only had three more months of this. As he climbed into his taxi he allowed himself a brief moment to imagine his election victory, the cheers from the sea of red to his left, perhaps most satisfyingly the weary gloom on the face of his opponents. He savoured it, as he tended to do nowadays when he was stressed and _fucking pissed off._ Then he snapped back to reality and began thinking about how the _fuck_ he was going to make choirboys sound interesting.

He had almost reached his office when he realised.

Oh no.

Oh ho fucking _no._

He’d left his camera at the church.

To be fair to Malcolm, he managed to wait until he’d gotten out of the taxi before he went _absolutely_ _fucking mental._ Snarling he flung himself out of the cab door and kicked the shit out of the nearest rubbish bin just as the smug chimes of the church clock announced it was four thirty. That was it. He’d never get it done. He thought he should probably use a pay phone to call Paul, but one thought of how _that_ conversation would go and _ye know what I’m too fucking sick of this shit, I’ll just let him think I’ve been hit by a fucking truck and be done with it._ The good people of Partick would have to wait a week to hear about the new choir, poor sods.

Malcolm began walking back to the church, muttering swear words under his breath and scaring at least one mother who hurried her child along, shielding his ears from Malcolm’s creative profanities. He hated this _fucking_ job, but, worse than that, he hated fucking up this fucking job. He just wanted to do something respected, something impressive, something that would make his da proud and something that he’d fought for and _deserved_ because, simply, he was the best man for the job. Not this half-hearted, not-giving-a-flying-monkey’s-balls about what he was doing.

He entered the church for a second time still cursing himself, praying that the camera was still there. _Aye, no one steals from a fuckin’ church unless they’re trying to prove a point_ he consoled himself as he marched towards the front of the building, his eyes sweeping across the pews. Sure enough his bag was still lying there on the pew next to where he’d been sitting. _Fuckin’ useless, how could you forget –_

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a rustling somewhere behind the altar up ahead. Confused, Malcolm’s eyes scanned the church. It was completely empty. _Probably a draught, I’m freezing my bollocks off in here when is the good lord Jesus going to mandate some central heating_ he thought bitterly to himself, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to leave, but suddenly there was a heavy ‘CLUNK’ and a gurgling noise that sounded to Malcolm like a puppy being both kicked and drowned at the same time.

‘Ye alright there?’ he ventured, slowly walking up to the alter. He walked around the table. There in front of him was a man no older than 20, a skinny brunette in a long black cassock with the largest blue eyes Malcolm had ever seen _Jesus Christ you could swim in those fuckers_. His distraction, however, was momentary as he saw that the man was lying on the floor, back against the altar, bottle of wine in one hand, the floor and his cassock covered in communion wafers. Wine dribbled down his chin and his _fucking stunning bluest blue_ eyes were glazed and unfocussed. When he saw Malcolm, he gingerly lifted his head, only for it to seemingly collapse under the supreme effort that this act had taken. The man slumped back and haphazardly tossed another wafer into his mouth.

‘Whudd’ye fuckin’ starin’ at ye lanky cunt’ he slurred, clumsily rooting around for another wafer.

Malcolm had seen his fair share of drunks; hell, as a child he’d rarely seen his ma without a bottle in her hand, and his inner voice was telling him to _fuck off, all he needs is a slap round the face from the vicar and a good night’s sleep, he’s not going to thank ye for hangin’ round_. But it was a Friday evening and he had nowhere else to be so against his better judgement he knelt down next to the man.

‘Any good?’ he asked, gesturing towards the wafers.

The man took another swig from the bottle, struggled to focus his eyes on Malcolm, then cleared his throat officially and gestured at the bag of wafers.

‘The body of our Lord Jesus Christ,’ he enunciated deliberately, ‘which was given fer you, preserve yer body and soul unto everlasting life… aye ye’d hope it’d be pretty fuckin’ good.’ He hiccupped and looked disdainfully at the bag. ‘Pretty sure Darren gets these from Aldi though. Bread of heaven comes surprisingly cheap when you buy it in bulk.’   The man tipped the last of the wine into his mouth and skidded the bottle across the floor towards Malcolm’s shoes.

‘What’s yer name, son? Or should it be ‘Father’?’ asked Malcolm, smirking.

The man scowled. ‘Just Jamie. Who the fuck are ye?’

Malcolm picked up the bottle and placed it upright to one side. ‘Aren’t ye lot against drinking to excess? I mean I’m sure ye’ve had a long hard day begging the Lord to forgive some poor fuck fer wanking into his grandma’s pea soup, but this is surely a little… unorthodox’

Jamie closed his eyes and threw another wafer in the air, hitting himself in the face. ‘Yeah, Yeah, I’m sure Jesus can cut me some fuckin’ slack. Leave me be, will ye just.’ His drunken voice took on a weary tone and he slumped even farther down against the alter, looking so pathetic that it sent a pang of pity even through Malcolm’s self-professedly cold, black heart. Part of him just wanted to go home, God knows he’d had a shitty day, but there was something about Jamie – _no it’s not jest his eyes, Malc, stop bein’ a fuckin’ pansy_ – that intrigued him and made him feel – _God help me_ – a little protective. He couldn’t just leave the wee lad lying there for the congregation to find passed out in a sea of wafers tomorrow. Malcolm sighed at his own stupidity – _fuckin’ heart of gold, it’ll be the death of ye -_ and held out his hand to Jamie.

‘Come on; out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart I’ve decided not to leave you to puke yer guts out all over this sacred fucking place. Ye got somewhere I can escort ye to?’

Jamie stared at Malcolm’s hand blankly. He seemed temporarily to sober up, and for a moment Malcolm thought he looked like a scared little boy, naïve and, _what the fuck’s got into ye Malc_ , vulnerable. _‘_ I had a fight with my da… I can’t really go back right now.’

‘Oh swallow yer pride and go back, apologise. I’d prob’ly fight with you if ye came home smelling like ye gatecrashed the last supper. Whatever the fight was about I’m sure ye can patch it up’

Jamie shook his head. ‘I… can’t go back. Not fer a couple o’ days. Ye haven’t met me da. He’s not the kiss and make up kind o’ fellow, more likely to bash me round the jaw.’ He attempted to smile, and in doing so looked so broken, so utterly hopeless, that Malcolm felt a sudden burning need to touch the lad, to put his arm around him and try to make everything ok. Internally he cursed himself. _Snap out of it, ye’re goin’ soft._

‘Look, what happened? Is it something ye did?’

‘It’s not even a specific thing. It’s my whole _life_ , it’s like he’s opposed to my very fuckin’ _being_. Nineteen years and all I seem to have done is try to live up to his fuckin’ image of what I’m supposed to be – It’s because of him that I’ve pissed the last two years of my life away in this fuckin’ church, my da always said that the only respectable careers for a man were bein’ a priest or bein’ a doctor. The second I mention to him that I’m not happy doin this… self-delusional _shite_ , he starts calling me ungrateful.’

He turned his head and scrubbed furtively at his eyes. Malcolm pretended to find the floor very interesting until he’d composed himself. He turned his head back and gave Malcolm the most pathetic look he’d ever seen on a human being, his eyes somehow getting even bigger, and Malcolm’s heart twinged painfully. _Ah fuck it._

‘A’right. Come wi’ me. Ye can sleep at my place tonight’ He roughly thrust out his hand to Jamie and tried to look more pissed off with the idea than he actually was.

Jamie gave a drunken giggle. ‘I was told not tae go home with strange men. I don’t even know yer name. How do I know your intentions are honourable?’

Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, ye got me, the only reason I came into this church was to find a priest pissed enough to let me bum him in the back of a Volvo. My name’s Malcolm and I’m doin’ ye a favour, take it or leave it.’

‘A’right, a’right’ Jamie grasped Malcolm’s hand and staggered to his feet, looking momentarily confused when wafers showered from his cassock and landed with a gentle patter on the stone floor. Malcolm chuckled and pulled him outside.

Just before Malcolm shoved him into a taxi, Jamie placed a slightly uncoordinated but well-meaning hand on his shoulder, and his eyes focused dead on, staring into Malcolm’s.

‘Hey. This is… Thanks.’ He mumbled softly.

Internally, Malcolm melted. Externally, he rolled his eyes and pushed Jamie into the taxi. ‘Ye don’t actually know I’m not a fuckin’ psychopath yet. Save it for the morning’ and as they drove away, Malcolm’s hand on the younger man’s shoulder, he felt a sense of light-headed happiness that he hadn’t felt for fucking _months._

It was only when Jamie threw up all over his shoes that he even began to wonder whether this was such a fucking great idea after all.


End file.
